Undateable

I realize I reminisce more than I make memories. I spend too much time reading inscriptions from my high school yearbook, mourning lost friendships, giving a eulogy to a senior photo and a smile from another time. I spend nights at home with: Rachel, Ross, Chandler, and Joey. Will and Grace visit on holidays. I am as stable as jello, as dependable as a slippery bar of soap. Bubble bath clutters my bathroom cabinets. I don't even have a bath tub, but I think I will someday. And along with my porcelain, bear-claw bathtub, I will live a two-story, red brick house stifled with ivy. This is what I think about. This is why I don't date. I would wait until the very last minute to search through a pile of wrinkled clothes. Preform the sniff test until a pair of pants passes with above a B-. I would arrive with unwashed hair and have no idea what to order. He would make small talk about weather and work, but all I would want to talk about is the gossip girl finale -- which he hasn't seen. I don't know enough about the missile crisis in Cuba, or government relations in Syria, or what the exchange rate is from dollars to rubles, but I do know who the president is, and that is something. Actually I almost voted for him a year ago, but I got distracted by a villainous bowl of cheese balls and a very comfortable water bed. This is what I do. This is why I don't date. I would order one too many Gin and Tonics and start talking about Dylan, and how many men I've slept with. In the log flume ride of my mouth, that seems to be the topic that plummets into the cold water first,and unfortunately my dear friend in front of me has not been equip with the proper, waterproof apparel. He has probably been gone for hours, I would lag behind biting lime wedges, sucking ice cubes. Replaying bad days in dream sequences on repeat. Men flinging themselves out of my life like marbles climbing down a spiral staircase. I never had a father. The closest I came was seventh grade social studies, when Mr. miller put his hand on my ass and kissed the curve of my neck. He imprinted purple bruises with the velocity of a unripe apple falling from the tallest branch. It had the most access to sunlight, but became shoved into the rotten masses of urinated on fruit carcasses torn up with the dirt -- it's only view is shade. My water bill is two months over due, I haven't paid a student loan payment since last December. I live in a cardboard box, made of half-erased moments and unframed photos. I can put off reality with a channel change and a new bag of potato chips. dinner is a hot pocket. dessert is a cigarette. This is who I am. This is why I don't date.